


Argentum et Aurum

by Toastybluetwo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-06 12:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastybluetwo/pseuds/Toastybluetwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after Doom Upon All the World, Lavellan has settled into a new life as Inquisitor, with Dorian by his side. But the consequences of past choices threaten the peace and splendor that both have built together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Alcoholism as a prominent theme. Spoilers for all of Dragon Age: Inquisition. Explicit rating for later chapters.
> 
> Special thanks to azuremosquito for betaing this, and etonia for her support!

“Good morning, Your Worship. Might we have a word?”

Aethenaris Lavellan paused and turned toward the sound of the voice. Among bare wooden beams and half of a masonry wall, a skeleton of a brand-new shop, he saw Bonnie Sims peering out at him.

Arching his thick, blond eyebrows in surprise, he said, “Of course. What’s on your mind?” He altered his course from his usual morning stroll, moving instead to the half-completed building.

The spotless floorboards creaked under his boots as he slipped into the door frame. Inside the small structure, two long counters stood so close together that Bonnie’s skirts squashed against both. Before her, on one of the counters, lay an assortment of items, each placed almost deliberately upon a length of dark samite.

Beneath her mask, Bonnie smiled and bobbed her head. “As you know, I’ve been liquidating my stock of weapons and armor. There is no longer a need for two stores of the same kind now that most of the refugees have departed. I’ve been in contact with buyers in Val Royeaux to look for stock that might better suit our current situation.” Leaning over the counter, she took up a large, flat case in both hands. “One of them accidentally sent this to me. I insisted that I could never sell it here. The buyer feared that these would be taken by bandits if we attempted to send them back. I wondered if you might be interested in them.”

Before Aethenaris could inquire when the box held, she snapped up the tiny clasps and opened the lid. Inside lay a set of jewels not unlike those gracing some of the courtiers at the Winter Palace, gold and opals and delicate ropes, earrings, rings, bracelets, and necklaces.

For a moment, he found himself unable to speak. Sliding his fingers under one of the rings, he drew it out of the box and held it up to a ray of sunlight. The opal glimmered gold and blue.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, turning the ring so that the light played upon it differently, changing the way that the colors flowed into one another. The sight captivated him, but slight confusion then seeped into his mind. He owned only two pieces of jewelry – a charm for daily wear and a medallion for official Inquisition events. He did not know why Bonnie would think of him in this matter. “Though not exactly my sort of thing – oh.”

And then, he knew Bonnie’s intention, and that realization reflected in his blue-green eyes. Sliding the ring onto one of his long, thin fingers, he found it far too large. But it had never been intended for him, nor would it be. In his mind, he saw the gold chains resting against the soft skin of Dorian’s neck, and the opal rings glimmering on his capable hands.

Smiling, Bonnie nodded her head. “For the Grand Archivist,” she said. “A gift, perhaps?”

For the Grand Archivist, indeed – a gift unlike any that Aethenaris had ever given Dorian. Heavy gems and winding ropes, each link so tiny that it left him marveling at its craftsmanship; this was not a small book or a fine ink set or a new teapot for the Inquisition archives. This one spoke of permanence, of two souls that collided in the tides of war and tightly wound together, then slowly built a fortress around themselves and their companions.

The monetary value of this gift did not give Aethenaris pause. The emotional value did. And he found himself caught in the memory of Dorian’s smile, his laugh – both chased the chill of the early morning air away and brought a smile to the corners of Aethenaris’s pale lips.

“I’ll have to think about this.” He returned his attention to the masked shopkeeper, who seemed to be trembling slightly, as if she anticipated his decision. When her smile began to vanish, he gave a light shake of his head. “I don’t usually buy things like this, and this is a lot of things. Like this. You know. I’ll tell you what –“ he fought for the words that might chase away the unease in the room. “Give me a day to decide. If I refuse, I’ll ask Cullen for a soldier to deliver the pieces back to Val Royeaux.”

Relief washed over the visible portion of the shopkeeper’s face, and she dropped a small curtsey. “That is a very fair arrangement. Thank you, Inquisitor.”

As he stepped from the shop, he passed by two masons both headed for the large pile of stones that lay nearby. They exchanged polite and brief greetings before Aethenaris continued his walk, up the ramp to the battlements.

The rising sun peeked over the battlements, beginning to defeat the cold night air that seemed present even in the summer months. Drawing a deep breath, Aethenaris found his lungs aching for the air in the Free Marches – it didn’t leave one panting after an hour of physical training and it didn’t burn a parched throat. But as he began to ascend to the battlements, his thoughts shifted back to the gleaming ring that he had held just moments before.

The ring. He paused in place halfway up the battlements and considered what he had admitted by admitting nothing at all. He had admitted thoughts that he had never allowed to fully form before, but simply acknowledged when they started to shift from emotion to word.

The lost voices of Clan Lavellan rose up in his memory then, and Aethenaris stood in lush forests and on the shores of isolated beaches, standing among his clan, young and then older, watching as the Keeper wrapped woven branches or wreaths of flowers around the outstretched hands of a young or old couple. He could no longer remember the words of the ancient wedding ceremonies, only strings of phrases that he translated into the common tongue: “symbol of eternal devotion before the eyes of the gods” and “a bond to withstand even the darkest days”.

Marriage seemed to him to be one of the many peaks in a great ocean of the love of two people, though not an ultimate goal in all love affairs; the gods smiled upon the Dalish whenever they loved each other, even briefly. But humans had strange and terrible ideas about such things and some of those ideas had left scars on Dorian’s heart.

People could wound one another even with the best of intentions. Aethenaris had resolved long ago that he would sooner turn the sacred into the profane before he might cause Dorian pain.

“Good morning.” Dorian’s voice shattered Aethenaris’s reverie in such a way that he shuddered, and wondered in a fleeting moment if his thoughts had shouted and summoned rather than whispered. “Forgive me for not waking you. You looked so still and peaceful, I thought perhaps you could use the extra sleep.”

Dorian descended from the battlements, where the entrance to the archives lay, but spoke well within earshot of a number of guards and servants. He spoke of them sharing a room, sharing a bed – two details that he would have, just a year ago, preferred to remain private. Now, he wore fine garments at inappropriate times – such as now, before ninth bell, in a suit of samite with silver fastenings and jet-black feathers spraying across his broad shoulders. He ran his Inquisition Archives like his own bannorn and expected the same deference that one might give a Bann.

And he smiled more than he ever had in his entire life.

Aethenaris met the smile with one of his own and a small bow to match, then closed the distance between them, moving up and onto the battlements. “It’s alright. You’re not working?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Dorian waited for him at the top of the ramp, then led the way toward one of the Keep walls. “I am waiting for the caravans to arrive from Starkhaven.” Leaning against the wall with both hands in front of him, fingers splayed and displaying ten silver rings, he gazed out toward the road.

With his gaze briefly flitting over Dorian’s capable hands, noting each of the rings, Aethenaris stepped up next to Dorian. “What’s in Starkhaven?”

Dorian chuckled. “A better question would be, ‘What isn’t in Starkhaven?’ These days, we are apt to pretend that Kirkwall and its infamy is the only city in the Free Marches. It’s not. Far from it. Starkhaven has its share of unique history. Not to mention that Prince Sebastian gives me almost anything I ask for – Chantry documents and the like.” He hissed in a breath between his teeth. “His knees are a bit worn out from the Chantry pews, if you get my drift. But he’s the good sort. He wants to have us as guests once he’s taken back his throne.”

Aethenaris nodded his head, reaching up to run a hand over his forehead and through his hair. “We both know the reason that he’s being so friendly toward us.”

“Of course.” Dorian shifted his gaze back at Aethenaris’s face, his grey eyes tinged with amusement. “The Inquisition will be called upon to mediate the debate over the throne. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Josephine keeps giving me reports about the remaining contenders trying to drag the Game into it or – something. I don’t know.” Aethenaris shrugged his shoulders. “Certain lords are supporting certain lords because they married each other’s grandparents once upon a time. I should read those reports but they make my eyes blur. It’s not Josie’s fault, either.” The idea of sitting down with the piles of family trees and histories and copies of business contracts caused his teeth to clench involuntarily.

“For someone that doesn’t care about the Game, you play it extraordinarily well. The events of the Grand Masquerade last year still make me laugh when I think about them.” Admiration crept into Dorian’s tones. He tilted his head, looking to the road again and the two heavily guarded wagons that rolled into their view. “On the topic of Vael, though, the fact that he’s being a bit too helpful is the equivalent of him showing his hand. Perhaps he might sing the Chant in the bath, but he’s no fool. He recognizes our political influence.”

“Does no one want to have a friend for the sake of friendship?” Aethenaris threw his hands up in the air, a mockery of himself. “’Oh, hello, Inquisitor. Hawke and I would love to have you and the Grand Archivist over at our summer house for the weekend. We’ll play human board games and catch a new play in town. It’ll be a grand time.’”

Dorian gave a toss of his head and laughed. “Is that sarcasm, Inquisitor? I don’t believe it. I would have never heard such a thing when I first joined the Inquisition. Look at the effect I’ve had on you. I’m immensely proud.”

“What can I say?” Aethenaris met Dorian’s smile with one of his own. He had nearly forgotten about the cold; Dorian’s smile left the tips of his fingers tingling rather than numb. “I have my limits.”

“So you do. Listen – I need to meet this caravan before the Quartermaster sticks his mitts in it. But before I do –“ Dorian dipped his head in one elegant movement, his lips at one of Aethenaris’s ears. His voice reduced to a whisper. “You’d be wise to read those reports, no matter what you have to do to get through them. The Free Marches presents a new challenge altogether. Don’t put your pieces on a board you’ve never even seen.”

Aethenaris hardly heard this advice. He only smelled the whiskey on Dorian’s breath; this stole away the grin and the cheerful mood that had been building. He responded to the whisper with a single nod of his head.

Dorian did not seem to notice the spiraling of Aethenaris’s mood. “See you at dinner,” he murmured before departing, heading down the ramp and toward the gates of the keep, the tails of his long coat trailing behind him.

Aethenaris stood rooted to the very spot, the chill returning to his fingertips. In the distance, at the Andrastrian chapel, the sisters sounded the ninth bell, a toll that rang somehow lower than usual, a morning dirge. He dropped his gaze to his hands, the palms rough, the fingernails broken and uneven, fingers pale from the cold. In that moment, he had the urge to burst into the archive and tear through Dorian’s writing desk, glare into every shadow and corner of every display case, all looking for hidden bottles of drink. To do so would have been a violation of their trust, despite Aethenaris’s position of power.

Instead, he looked at his hands. He clasped them behind his back in a way of deciding without putting worded thought to his emotion. He would not have any of the nearby guards seeing the trembling of his fingers. He would not use his hands to destroy what he and Dorian had built, what remained so very fragile and gentle and wonderful all at once.

Instead, Aethenaris started for his personal vault, wherein lay bags of gold that, most of the time, he had no real mind to spend on himself or Dorian. He would be late for a meeting with Cullen, and would instead take a long path to the Commander’s tower, past Sims’ shop and inside, to leave a bag of gold behind.

“Inquisitor,” murmured a guard as he passed.

“Good morning.” The greeting came automatically, flat and dull, with sorrow tucked away and out of sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor's eyes are opened.

“The only problem with traditional gatherings is actually starting the tradition.” Josephine sighed heavily and linked her fingers together. “And unscheduled duels to the death. That’s two.” Her eyes widened as two workers staggered by, each carrying half of a large pole. “Be careful! Oh no, let’s not put it there. Try there, by the wall.”

Aethenaris exhaled through his nose loudly and continued to look between the points of activity. A Qunari woman shouted at a number of human men as they assembled what appeared to be a great meat roasting pit, complete with three iron spits. Ladders thudded against the battlements and brightly-colored buntings struggled up the walls, some yanked upward by ropes and hands.

Turning with his back to the activity, Aethenaris leaned toward Josephine, hunched over slightly so that none of the surrounding workers might hear his words. “Is this all really necessary?” he murmured. “I’m still uncomfortable with this whole –“ he waved a hand in a circle as he fought for the words, “ – holiday-dedicated-to-me sort of thing.”

“They’re unveiling a statue of you in Denerim, you know,” Josephine said with a smile, not modulating her tone.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Pointing a finger at the ground, Aethenaris gave a light shake of his head. The entire discussion left him on the balls of his feet, as if he would bolt for his quarters at a moment’s notice.

Josephine let out her own mock sigh. “The Empress commissioned a fireworks show during the festivities in Val Royeaux. Such a display has never been performed before – and will probably never again.”

Aethenaris rolled his head from side to side, his neck popping at the attempt to release some of his discomfort. “Now you’re doing it on purpose.”

She chuckled. “Your modesty only adds to your legend, Your Grace. Let’s talk about music. I’ve hired three minstrel groups, each of whom will play for two hours apiece –“

His attention did not remain on the smaller details of the celebration. It seemed more attractive at the moment to continue to roll his head from shoulder to shoulder in an attempt to loosen the tight muscles of his neck. He didn’t need to listen; Josephine always planned such events with proficiency, and rarely did a misstep worse than a spilled glass of wine or a dropped ham occur.

His right hand brushed the pouch at his belt, and for a moment, his attention shifted again. Inside lay the jewelry that Sims had sold him, now folded into lengths of silk, the pouch safely secured and completely unremarkable in its form, as not to attract attention.

“Cullen could tell you about the guard detail himself, so I’ll avoid specifics. One post in the kitchen, ten on the walls, two at the gate, three roaming. Anyone willing to work will be paid an extra sovereign for the evening, including being given the next day off –“

Aethenaris’s gaze diverted to the Inquisition Archives tower, his heart becoming heavy in his chest. Was Dorian up there, now, drinking while he worked? When had this escalated into drinks before the ninth bell? Searching his mind for any indicator, any sign of this change, he recalled the small table in their quarters, how it had once held a tea setting. Now, a collection of liquor and cups had taken over, starting with a single bottle the day that Dorian moved his possessions into Aethenaris’s room. All at once, his memory flooded with signs, signals – Dorian mentioning having to turn over half of his pay to the tavern, Dorian arriving silently in their quarters well after Aethenaris had retired for the night, sometimes turning up in places Aethenaris didn’t expect him to be.

Then there were the nights that he didn’t return to their chambers at all. How quickly Aethenaris would be to rise and go to the kitchen, wait for the cook to make a good, hearty breakfast. How quickly he was to dismiss any morning appointments to deliver the morning meal, himself, up to the archives. There, he often found Dorian fast asleep at his writing desk, an empty cup just out of reach of his fingertips.

 _And I found it charming._ Aethenaris seethed from within. _I dismissed it._ _Perhaps it is a Shem thing. Perhaps it is a Tevinter thing._ Aethenaris’s lips stretched into a wince at the memory of each excuse he had made for himself _. Perhaps it is a mage thing. I made excuses for our differences and the evidence was there all along_.

 _Mythal help me. I’m a blasted fool_.

“Your Grace?” Josephine looked – no, _stared_ – at him, her face filled with concern. “Is something the matter?”

For a moment, Aethenaris deliberately avoided her gaze, weighing on telling her the burdens of his mind. But a second thought bisected the first – did she already know? Somehow, this concept tainted the first. I have charged the Inner Circle to see what I cannot. How much have they seen and not told me? How deeply have they regarded my privacy, right into the depths of silence?

He wanted nothing more than to depart the keep and its cacophony of preparations, and he made the resolution to do so. “Walk with me.”

They did not speak again until they started out of the Keep itself and stepped onto the bridge leading to the brand new road beyond. Then, Josephine broke her silence as her fine shoes crunched upon the light covering of snow there: “This bothers you a great deal, doesn’t it? The celebrations.”

He paused in place, blinking hard as his mind fought to keep their discussion in the present. “No. Well, a little. You know how I feel. We’ve talked of it before.” He huffed out a sigh, his breath curling in the cold air, and stared at the end of the long bridge, watching for incoming wagons or travelers. He saw neither. “I’m adjusting still, but that’s not why I asked you out here.” He paused then and looked back at the archives, at its tall tower and sloping roof, the fine masonry worthy of a king’s palace in its form.

Aethenaris became aware that Josephine no longer looked at him, but looked in the same direction. And then, when she spoke, she said something he did not expect: “One night, I could not sleep. I took a walk on the battlements. Dorian was there, with his telescope. I could tell that he had been drinking. He seemed to be having difficulty with the telescope, something about the alignment of the lenses. We talked a great deal about Tevinter names for the constellations, and then we left.” She paused, her eyes still fixed on the tower. “The next morning, he had no memory of the discussion.”

Closing his eyes, Aethenaris blew out a long, slow breath. The confirmation felt like a cool bath after a long hot day, blissful relief after hours in a scalding sun. He could not find the words to answer Josephine.

He felt her small hand on his arm, a comforting gesture. “If you will allow me to be informal –“

“Yes.” Opening his eyes, he looked back at her. He wondered if she knew exactly how badly he needed her to do so. “Yes. Of course.”

Returning her attention to the archive, she linked her fingers behind her back. “The Inquisition Archives looks nothing like the rest of Skyhold. Modern Tevinter architecture and masonry, granite staircases, wrought iron bannisters. New bookcases, furniture crafted in Tevinter, custom rugs woven in Orlais. All in the same Keep as ancient elvish and old Ferelden architecture, Ferelden decorations with a strong elvish influence.” She knitted her eyebrows for a moment. “The architectural style of the Archives  doesn’t fit with the rest of the keep. Our visitors have said as such. Some have even called it an eyesore. And yet –“ she sighed, her face softening, “it is quite literally a testament to your devotion to Dorian. A gift from the Herald of Andraste to his beloved, carved in stone and iron.”

Astonished at this assessment, detailed in the care he had taken to craft the Archives for Dorian, Aethenaris found himself unable to speak.

Josephine shook her head. “Ah, but to see you both happy after you have lost so much – no. We were wrong to not have raised our concerns. We thought it none of our business at first. You and Dorian are deeply private people. You do not reveal one other’s secrets and you would defend one another to the death. We also are – as you must be – aware of Dorian’s pride. We did not want to drive Dorian away from you or the Inquisition.” She allowed her hands to fall to her sides. “You should know that Cullen tried to speak to Dorian on the matter. Twice, in fact.”

Knitting his brows together, Aethenaris felt the moment of surprise turn to dust. “Dorian never told me. Neither of them did.”

“Cullen made it clear that he would settle the matter. He didn’t. Either time. He meant to offer his support, as a man once in the clutches of the beast, as it were,” Josephine said. “The first time, Dorian deflected him with humor. The second, it came to harsh words.”

It was too much, far too much to process. Too much had transpired in a few hours. His breakfast churned within his stomach and the frustration filled his voice: “You should have told me, Ambassador.”

“You’re right.” Josephine spoke in patient tones, and that voice aggravated him further. That voice she used with lords and banns and dukes who misbehaved and needed gentle reminders of better etiquette. “We treated the situation as if we were dealing with a valued Inner Circle member who had fallen into a pattern of dangerous behavior. Not a valued Inner Circle member who also happened to be the Inquisitor’s paramour. We failed you.”

Then, Aethenaris spat out two words that he immediately wished he could take back: “ _That’s twice_.”

Josephine flinched. There was no reason to explain. They both knew what he meant.

His memory swelled with regret and anger and latent mourning, calm over the last few months, but an ache that never truly went away. He could never go home, not even to tell his mother and father the news of all he had done and seen, to introduce them to Dorian, the first Tevinter that they would ever meet and likely never meet another. He would never again hear the voices of friends he cherished, old lovers that remained strong companions.

And in that moment, the sense of betrayal and loneliness superseded all else. The dark, deep well of both drew him back to the keep at quick pace, with Josephine’s pattering footsteps in pursuit.

She did not follow him once he reached the Great Hall, and for that he was grateful.

****

The afternoon meeting of Aethenaris’s advisors – Josephine, Cullen, and Harding – felt strangely brief and stilted, as if the invisible hand of guilt pressed down on the four of them at once. Aethenaris clung to human rules of formality with tenacity, calling them all by their titles – Ambassador, Commander, Spymaster. Harding attempted a joke that went nearly unnoticed and definitely not appreciated. Cullen did not meet Aethenaris’s gaze. Josephine’s voice lacked its friendly tones.

There were reports to read. No new troop deployments, but the possibility of retrieval of one company from Kirkwall. It would be something to weigh carefully, lest a hasty withdrawal plunge the city into civil war and disobedience again.

Aethenaris thanked them and withdrew to his quarters, aware of the hollow feeling that he left behind in his wake. Good. He hoped that they felt it. It reflected the one emotion that had settled in his breast, a shattered sense of trust. Furthermore, he felt as though that within the walls of Skyhold, surrounded by people that greeted, bowed, and saluted to him at every turn, that he was utterly and completely alone.

Stripping off his jacket and shirt, followed by his boots, he proceeded to follow his usual afternoon exercises without his weapon. The training of the muscles in his limbs and stomach soothed him even as the sinews groaned in agony. It had been far too long since he had seen real battle – nearly nine months since they had to march on a leftover bastion of Venatori forces.

But each repetition reminded him of the day’s events, echoing emotion and word and sound. It followed with a feeling of guilt: _I should not have been so severe with Josephine. I have made mistakes and so has she. She did not draw a knife on my clan. Cullen did his best with Dorian; I know this to be true. And they did their best to protect us both, to spin it into better cloth where we could meet in the middle. They were wrong, but they did not mean to harm us_.

Rising up from the floor, he moved to the bed and lay upon the thick pillows there, staring at the ceiling. He had correspondence to write. He had advisors to apologize to, to talk to, to work out what had transpired days or weeks or even months ago. He caught himself reaching for the bell cord used to summon a servant – why did he want to do that? To call Harding, Cullen, and Josephine directly into his quarters while he lay in his bed, half-clothed and covered in sweat? He would call for the kitchen and ask them what fruit they stocked in the pantry this time of year, and turn that fruit into flaky, buttery pastries that would be sent to each advisor. Did humans bake for one another as an apology? Was it appropriate?

He removed his hand from the bell cord. A personal apology would be better. But he would do that later, when the pillows beneath him no longer cradled him in warmth and invited him to forget the rest of the world for a few short hours.

He would have to confront Dorian that night, at the end of a terrible day that had started with the purchase of the jewelry set and thoughts about their future. The day had held such great promise, and now dimmed into a grey fog that Aethenaris could hardly navigate.

 

*****

A pair of lips swept across his, along with the unmistakable tickle of a moustache brushing across his upper lip. Aethenaris reached up as a matter of habit, still caught within the cradle of sleep, sliding his arms around Dorian’s body to keep him close. His thoughts returned, one by one, like candles flickering under magical command, igniting with an unseen force until he opened his eyes.

Dorian smiled, though Aethenaris caught the tinge of worry in his expression. “And then the handsome prince kissed the dashing knight, and awoke him from his enchanted sleep. And they lived happily ever after.”

 _He knows. He knows that I know_. Aethenaris sat up and looked past Dorian for a moment. The light in the windows had all but nearly vanished, leaving behind trails of purple, orange, and dark blue melding into deepening darkness. “Oh,” he said, half-sleeping still, astonished at the sight of sunset. “It’s late. I’ll see if the kitchen has anything left of dinner.”

“No need.” Dorian rose up from the bed and started across the room. “I had the kitchen bring up a plate for you. You’ll find it on your writing table.”

In that moment, Aethenaris’s attention honed on Dorian and his path, watching as he swept toward the small table that held the decanters, bottles of drink from various parts of Thedas, and cups. Sleep’s hold vanished from his mind. The morning and afternoon’s events returned, wave after scalding wave, and Aethenaris rose to his feet.

“The roasted hen is marvelous.” Dorian took up one of the cups and placed it before him, almost in a methodical manner. He chose one of the bottles with a scrutinizing gaze. “I’m convinced that the cook uses magic in the sauce. Wonderfully filling. Almost too much so. At any rate –“

Aethenaris moved quicker than he dared. He focused on the cup Dorian filled, crossed the room in a few strides. Dorian placed the bottle back on the table and reached for the glass, but Aethenaris leaned over and slapped his hand so quickly over the cup that whiskey splashed his palm. His long fingers pressed against Dorian’s darker, warmer ones, a gesture of additional defense.

“Dorian,” he murmured, his voice so soft in the vast space of the room, filled with building intensity. “We’re alone.”

Arching his elegant eyebrows, Dorian did not mask his confusion – or perhaps surprise – at Aethenaris’s nerve. “If you’re asking for sex, then just come out and say it. Though, to be quite honest, I’m not in the mood. Perhaps tomorrow after the celebration?”

Aethenaris dipped his head, catching Dorian’s gaze and holding it for one, long, silent moment. He became aware of his own breathing, how it quickened, driven forward by a building ache within his mind and body. Why did this seem so damned difficult?

Then, after he had drawn a few breaths, he spoke again, so firmly and yet remaining quiet: “You’ve hardly retired here and you already want a drink?”

Dorian’s jaw tensed and confusion at once turned to defense. “Sorry, I had a rough day at the archives.”

He felt Dorian try to draw back his hand. The glass wavered. Aethenaris did not dare move a single finger.

“Let me draw you a bath, then.” Aethenaris’s tone suggested a silent dare, a harshness, a cold realization. “Or make you a cup of tea.”

Dorian coughed out a laugh of disbelief. “The Herald of Andraste is going to draw his own water from the well and boil it himself? What is the world coming to?”

“For you?” Dorian’s mockery, his deflection, only fuelled the anger building inside of Aethenaris.  “I would do it a hundred times.”

“How romantic. Do move your hand.”

Aethenaris hesitated. No. This wasn’t over. Not even close. He found himself prying his fingers off the glass, forcing himself to step aside, but not without a single retort of his own: “You drink too much.”

“And you are fond of overstating the obvious.” Dorian raised the glass in a silent yet grim toast, took a drink, and started toward the couch. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold it against you. It’s part of your charm, really.”

He couldn’t face Dorian in that moment. Not then, not when he heard Dorian slide onto the couch, fabric against fabric, in a way that the change in weight on the furniture could hardly be heard. The pure anger that he had built over the entire day wavered on a weak foundation, and rapidly began to shift into sadness.

_I can’t do this. I have to, but I can’t._

“Don’t change the subject,” he managed, aware of how weak he sounded – _pull yourself together, you’re the Lord Inquisitor, you’ve stared down monsters as bad as this one, but this one has hold of him so strongly and he knows it, he knows it. Mythal, tell me what to do_.

But Mythal did not answer his silent prayer. He did not hear a single whisper of reply.

“What did you say? ‘Change the subject?’ Oh, let’s.” Dorian seemed to inject false-cheer into his voice. “Come. Sit next to me. I want to hear about all of the celebratory preparations. I couldn’t catch any of them myself. I was far too busy with my correspondence.”

Dorian’s words stung, his indifference sliced like a sharp blade, and Aethenaris turned and struck out, pushing past the prayers and the doubt in a voice louder than he dared: “Are you going to keep doing this? Drinking yourself into a stupor day after day, night after night? Why? We built this Keep together. We built this life together. I thought this made you happy _. I thought I made you happy_.”

“You do. More than I can begin to describe with any language that I know,” Dorian did not look away, but he did not match Aethenaris’s anger. In fact, a certain intensity built in his voice. “Do not think for a moment that I haven’t stopped and regarded it all. It’s a brilliant metaphor for my life, Skyhold. Drawn up from ruin, given new purpose and life – and you at the center of it all. Waking every morning with you at my side, not having to fear the wagging tongue of a servant bringing me to shame, living openly and proudly with you –“ Dorian inhaled deeply and looked away from him, drawing in a deep breath before he continued – “wonderous and wonderful. To have met you, grown to know you, fought at your side, and much more – I cannot fathom what good deed I might have done to deserve this life. Only that you are more dear to me than anyone I have ever known.”

“It’s not enough.” The ache within Aethenaris’s chest spread to his throat, forming into a lump.

Dorian’s grey eyes returned to his face. “This is not a rift you can seal, Inquisitor.” He shook his head in an almost sympathetic way. “It tore into my life far, far before you stepped into it.” Draining his drink, he set it on the table next to the couch. Then, he rose up, straightening his jacket and smoothing it into place. “You would be better off pretending that it doesn’t exist. We could go back to our lives, as before.”

“So I’m supposed to watch you drink yourself to death?” This couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t let it happen. Aethenaris hands curled into fists out of desperation. His voice cracked and unshed tears clouded his vision.

Dorian grimaced. “We all die, _Amatus_ ,” he said, choking on the words as they passed his lips. Sniffling softly, he added, “Some of us intend to leave a better looking corpse.” He turned to leave.

“No you don’t.” Aethenaris’s voice twisted between a growl and a yell as he moved toward Dorian. “You are not sleeping in the archives, or on the battlements, or the stables. No. You are not running away from this. You are not running away from me. You are not running away from us.”

The words brought Dorian’s footsteps to a standstill at the top of the stair. Raising his head, he looked up and into the air for a moment, then down at the staircase before him. “Very well. Have it your way. You wanted to get a pot of tea for me? I’m going to find one for us. I’ll return. Then, we will have a quiet evening together without talk of drinking. Do we have a deal?”

“Are you going to have another drink tonight?” Aethenaris asked.

Dorian hesitated, then said simply: “No.”

He caught himself trembling like a leaf in a breeze. “I swear it, if you don’t go right to the kitchen and come back, I’ll –“

“No need for threats,” Dorian interrupted him. “I said I wouldn’t. I won’t.”

And Dorian left the room and left Aethenaris standing there, frozen, the burden of the day crushing him, and his fear for Dorian howling like harbingers of an impending demise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected lesson.

“Well,” Aethenaris murmured as he gazed at himself in the mirror, “it’s – ah – got a lot of fabric.”

And his new festival clothes were heavy, but he wasn’t willing to mention that part. The tailor whom Josephine had hired for the occasion came from the Ferelden alienage, an eager-eyed young woman named Cara, whose father had worked two nights straight hand-tooling the leather gorget and epaulettes. Great folds of a light blue velvet cape hung well to the floor, matching the doublet and breeches.

Stepping forward, he examined the gorget. Indeed, Cara’s very elderly father seemed to have been gifted with a skilled hand. Symbols commonly associated with Mythal wove in and out of vines so detailed that it looked as though they had once been alive.

“Father told me that you were a worshipper of Mythal,” Cara said. “Was that correct? Do you like it?”

“ _Emma._ _Ma serannas_.” Aethenaris found himself unsure of the rest of the suit, but the gorget indeed provided a thoughtful touch. Running his fingers over the designs, tracing the vines, it occurred to him that the young elf was staring at him, waiting for something, though he could not discern what _. Does she even know Elvish?_ He wondered, realizing that he had fallen into an almost instinctual pattern of speaking his native tongue in front of another elf, a habit that had once greatly annoyed Sera.

Clearing his throat, he added. “That was very thoughtful of you both.”

Cara beamed a smile. “I’ve got a few quick alterations to make to the sleeves. Hold out your arms, if you could, Your Grace. It shouldn’t take long.” She guided one of his wrists so that he held out the arm, extending it fully.

It was then that Josephine stepped into Aethenaris’s field of vision. Like Cara, a smile lit up her face. “Wonderful. Yes. The leather pieces suggest faith and military power. The velvet? Opulence. And the Inquisitor looks dashing in light blue.”

“I was going to go for plush fustian velvet.” The young elf looked up from her work, her speech half-muddled by the number of pins she held in her teeth. “But the Grand Archivist suggested the light blue when I took his measurements last month.”

“Of course he did.” Aethenaris tried to keep his arm still as Cara made tiny stitches in the fabric at his wrist. He paused, considering for a moment the opportunity for a discussion that had presented itself. “Cara, the Grand Archivist – he came to see you this morning?”

“He was the first one on the fitting list. He came in at eighth bell.” She cast a glance at a dressmaker’s form in the corner, which held a billowing cape of feathers. Her ancient father knelt next to its trailing edge, stitching smaller feathers into the hem. “The cape needed a few finishing touches.”

Josephine nodded her head, but the expression on her face suggested that she had gleaned more information from those few phrases than Cara had intended. “Cara, it’s near noon. You and your father – Messere Joaquin, was it? – are invited to come and have lunch with us in the Great Hall. I think the cook baked her meat pies; they are somewhat legendary in this part of Ferelden. Do take your time; my fitting shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you go refresh yourselves? I need to have a word with the Inquisitor.”

“Oh. Thank you. One moment.” Cara tied a small knot and clipped the silk thread, stepping back. She made quick work of putting away a few of her sewing implements, helped Joaquin off the floor, and departed for the Great Hall.

It occurred to Aethenaris then that he would need to undress and the gorget presented an immediate problem. He no sooner reached up and back toward the fastenings that Josephine deftly stepped around him to assist. “Thank you,” he murmured. “We’re paying Cara and Joaquin well, right?”

“A shop in the Market District of Denerim,” replied Josephine smoothly. “Along with a fee in coin. Both approved by Queen Anora, including the guard we’ll be sending to make sure that those contracts are fulfilled without retaliation.” Her small fingers snapped open the gorget and lifted it gently from Aethenaris’s neck, placing the piece on a nearby table.

“See if we can’t shift some of our needs to them.” The epaulettes Aethenaris could remove by himself, and he made his way to the changing screen occupying the corner of the room. “If we give them our coin and our business, they will be able to hire more elves from the Alienage. We have the resources. Let’s help.”

“To be perfectly honest, we are poorly equipped to deal with uniforms for the Inquisition staff and soldiers, not to mention that we don’t have an on-staff tailor.” Josephine sounded satisfied with the suggestion. “We will look more closely at our options. I’ll speak to the quartermaster.”

Aethenaris nodded his head and slipped behind the screen. The doublet and trousers did not present as great of a difficulty to remove, nor did the cape. Even busying himself with undressing and dressing again did not stave away the gnawing ache in his chest. “Josephine, I owe you an apology.”

“You don’t,” she said smoothly. “I – we – deserved your anger, as I said before. None of us acted as we should have.”

He paused for a moment, taking in her words and turning them over in his mind before speaking again. “I can’t force Dorian to do anything that he’s unwilling to do. Not to mention that the timing is terrible. There will be a noble’s ransom of drink at this festival. It’s cruel.” Aethenaris caught himself holding the new doublet in both hands, staring at it as if the cloth offered some kind of wisdom. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, out loud, not caring who might have walked into the spare room at that very time.

A full moment passed before Josephine spoke again: “You should know that Harding set a few of her people to watch him, to keep their distance and stay out of his tower, but to be aware of his activities. They can’t say if he has been drinking this morning, but he did visit Cassandra just after he left his fitting.”

“So, we’re spying on him now?” Aethenaris’s thoughts did not shrink from the idea, a fact that he immediately felt deep, curling self-revulsion for. He sighed loudly and set the doublet on the dressing table behind him. “Any idea of what they discussed? Maybe it was just a friendly visit.”

“You could be right,” replied Josephine. “Cassandra told me that Dorian was looking for company. They had tea. Dorian asked her about the Chantry hierarchy. According to her, they had a pleasant conversation.” Aethenaris caught the doubt in her voice as she spoke.

Aethenaris found himself unable to decide what to do with the information. On one hand, Josephine and the rest of his advisors were no longer going at great lengths to conceal their involvement in the matter. On the other hand, they treated Dorian with the same level of trust as they would have with an Inquisition member whom they suspected of treachery.

_Dorian has done nothing wrong_ , Aethenaris thought as he dressed in the clothes that he had chosen that morning. Then he paused, reconsidering the inclination, and shivered at the slimy feeling it left on his skin. _No, he’s done everything wrong. He’s going to drink himself to death if I can’t convince him to stop. I am going to have to stand there by his grave and write a letter to his family and I won’t even be left with that feeling that he died bravely, died as a soldier of the Inquisition, died for the reconstruction and the healing we all so badly need. There is no comfort in this. None. He’ll die and it will be my fault._

_Just like my clan._

“Keep me updated,” Aethenaris murmured, pulling on his tunic. Taking up his boots in one hand, he moved out from behind the screen, to a comfortable chair, in order to put them on.

Josephine clasped her hands behind her back, a position of poise and control, but her face suggested otherwise. “About the wine,” she said, wincing even as she spoke. “I can make myself available to stand near the table. I can –“

“No. That’s not necessary.” Aethenaris shook his head. He didn’t even have to give the proposal a complete thought. “This celebration is for all of us. You put your time and attention into it. You deserve to enjoy it.”

“As should you, Your Grace.” The wince turned to a smile, albeit a sad one.

It was then, as Aethenaris pulled on the other boot, that he remembered the pouch containing the opal jewelry, the silver and gold ropes and rings. He had not attached it to his belt that morning, but left it behind in his quarters, on his writing table.

The time wasn’t right, Aethenaris decided. The time would not be right within the foreseeable future.

~*~

Aethenaris started up the stone staircase to the Great Hall when he heard a shuffle of hooves accompanying a familiar voice: “There you are. Are you busy, or might I steal you away?”

He would have never anticipated the sight that he would see when he turned around: Dorian leading his own horse as well as Aethenaris’s red hart, both saddled, with provision bags on the coal-colored courser. Both animals flickered their tails in an expectant way.

Aethenaris’s gaze moved from Dorian’s face, took a sweep around the courtyard, and back. “Where are we going?” He asked, driven more by curiosity than by the morning’s misery.

“For an afternoon’s diversion.” Dorian extended the hart’s reins in Aethenaris’s direction, adding a small  “Don’t worry. I’ll have you back well in time for the celebration.”

Aethenaris considered the matter as long as it took him to accept the reins. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see for yourself in about an hour.”

An hour. In truth, he couldn’t imagine where they were going. Even with the small thaw they experienced on the mountaintop, there wasn’t much for miles but barren stone, barring a few low-lying groves of trees near a freshwater stream. An hour would give them enough time to descend the bulk of the mountain and into the lowlands. With a nod, he mounted the hart, patted her on the neck, and followed Dorian out of the Keep.

It had been months since Aethenaris had last gone riding with Dorian, an activity that both had once enjoyed doing together. Now, the speed and the chilled wind felt nearly criminal, a freedom that Aethenaris did not feel like he deserved. He always thought that they must have looked like a strange pair of riders to one who would not have recognized them - a human seated with shoulders square and impeccable posture, and a Dalish elf riding as his people did, with more of his body in contact with the animal beneath him. He often wondered how humans could ride this way, without their limbs closer to the animal beneath them, without the capability to feel the tension in the beast or even its discomfort.

So much about humans still made no sense.

Aethenaris recognized the first portion of their path; it ran on the new road, down the new masonry, taking a turn close to a steep cliff, and onto a plateau where a herd of elk startled and fled. Dorian left the road once it turned into a path, following the place where melting snow turned a creek into a rushing stream. They descended the mountain carefully there, stopping only once the snow vanished, leaving behind two banks filled with mosses and knotty grasses.

Dorian dismounted his horse and led him to the stream for a drink. Aethenaris raised his head, gazing at the water itself. Here, salmon took great leaps out of the water before returning to their chilly home. The stream babbled and rushed through a small strand of strong trees, and rocks covered in green and brown mosses.

“You can thank Cassandra for telling me about this place.” Dorian motioned for Aethenaris to dismount. “It is apparently a favorite of hers.”

Aethenaris frowned as he dismounted. Something about that story did not make sense. Perhaps he or Harding or another experienced tracker could have found a place such as the one in which they stood just by a few spoken directions, but not Dorian. “Have you been here before?”

“During one of the campaigns where you left us both at Skyhold, we came here.” Dorian opened the long bag attached to his horse’s saddle, and, much to Aethenaris’s astonishment, drew out a pair of fishing poles. He tossed the longer of the two in Aethenaris’s direction.

Aethenaris caught the pole and looked at it with a discerning eye. Someone had crafted it carefully and used it often, but taken good care of it none the less. It seemed to be the last object he would have expected Dorian to own, let alone two, and he was certain that he had never heard Cassandra speak of knowing how to fish. “Where did you get these?”

“Blackwall.” Dorian smiled, tilting his head to one side. “He had to give away the remainder of his possessions before departing for Weisshaupt, if you recall. He said that you might teach me to fish someday.” Gesturing at Aethenaris’s fishing pole, he added, “Go on, then. Teach me.”

Aethenaris blinked hard with disbelief. The whole afternoon seemed to be bending away from the guit-trodden and leaning toward the bizarre. “You – what?”

“You were Clan Lavellan’s fisherman, were you not? Excellent. I have the honor of learning from a master.” Dorian pointed at the fishing pole. “Teach me to fish.”

Finding himself still incredulous at Dorian’s request – not only the request but Dorian himself making the request – Aethenaris searched his memory for an indication of Dorian ever being interested in fishing. Dorian had asked a few questions once or twice, perhaps during the campaign in the Hinterlands – or was it the Storm Coast? Glancing down at the pole and the thin line wrapped around it, Aethenaris looked back at Dorian. Any clue of the other’s motivation was a secret. For now. “Did you bring any bait?”

“You mean worms and insects to put on the hook? No. I’m afraid not,” replied Dorian smoothly. His face betrayed no aversion to either.

Aethenaris offered him a single nod. Fine. He would see where this was going. “Alright. Start overturning rocks. Look for loose dirt.”

Leaving the fishing pole on a rock, Aethenaris headed away from the shore, into the shade of a pair of trees. There, he knelt down, looking for signs of worms. He waited, watched, pushed around the rich black dirt with his fingertips, and waited for Dorian to explain himself. No explanation came. Raising his head from his work, he saw Dorian diligently turning over a number of larger rocks, scrutinizing what lay beneath each one.

When they both collected enough bait, they returned to their fishing poles, and Aethenaris began the lesson with the same patient words that he might use with a young member of his tribe looking to learn the craft. He spoke and mimicked a cast and waited for Dorian to explain himself for the reason that they were even out there, just a few scant hours before a celebration months in the planning.

Dorian attempted a cast with a level of expertise that Aethenaris had expected – arms a bit too loose, unsure, the hook falling on the shore rather than out in the rushing water. Aethenaris set aside his pole to step behind Dorian, arms upon arms and body against body, fine robes pressed against leather. He urged Dorian’s arms into proper form, mimicking the flicker of a perfect cast.

“Arms a bit straighter.” Aethenaris said. “You’ve nearly got it.”

It was then as he stood there, Dorian in his arms, the rush of the river loud in his ears, that Aethenaris realized at last why they were both there. He paused in his words, his arms feeling suddenly heavy, his body needing this closeness, this moment of joy, these few precious hours away from Skyhold.

Dorian’s left shoulder became a pillar of comfort. Drawing a soft breath, Aethenaris pressed his forehead there, against the folds of fabric, the embroidered snake design, and the strong muscles beneath.

“Is this part of the lesson?” Despite the words Dorian had chosen at that moment, his voice carried soft reverence, or something akin to relief. He relaxed in Aethenaris’s arms, the form in his own beginning to sag.

And then Dorian turned within Aethenaris’s hold, their bodies hardly separating. Pressing a soft kiss against the golden blond hair, he then rested his head on Aethenaris’s shoulder. A sigh escaped the mage’s lips, along with the distinct smell of Orlesian bourbon.

“You were happy for a moment there,” murmured Dorian softly. “I saw it, that light in your eyes. It was exactly what I was looking for.” His voice wavered. “It’s my fault. I’ve snuffed out that light. I would shake the foundations of this world to see it again.”

His words, combined with the scent, stiffened Aethenaris’s body in an involuntary reaction, holding Dorian tighter than he realized, clenching his teeth until his jaw ached. “Then shake them,” he hissed through teeth that he couldn’t manage to open. “Take up your courage and make the world tremble with your roar. Look at me.” His heart pounded wildly as he took Dorian’s head in both of his hands, raising up Dorian’s gaze until their eyes met, their noses nearly touching. “Look at me.” No. There would be no diverted glances here. Aethenaris focused his courage on those grey eyes and kept speaking: “Didn’t I tell you that you were one of the bravest men I ever knew? That strength has gone nowhere. Your soul is fortified and relentless.”

“I’ve tried it before, when I was on my own.” Dorian’s voice still wavered, as if he held back tears. “It’s different with mages when we purge ourselves of our vices. Above and beyond the illness from abstaining, the very sensation of our own power changes. The variables shift and have to be relearned. The instability is terrifying.” The fishing pole clattered onto the rocks below, forgotten, as Dorian’s hands buried themselves in Aethenaris’s tunic. “ _I’m terrified_.”

Aethenaris’s eyebrows came together in the center of his forehead. “You said that you were on your own back then. You aren’t on your own now. You have your friends. You have _me_.” Drawing a soft breath, he felt the momentum of the discussion ebb away. He saw fear thick in Dorian’s eyes – unrestrained and aching, and that sight in turn pulsed pain in his own chest. “ _Ma falon, ma vhenan, ma sulahn’nehn_.”

A soft laugh, perhaps threaded with disbelief, escaped Dorian’s lips. “You brave, inspiring, alluring, wonderful man. The last one’s a damned lie and you know it.” Tears, at last, escaped his grey eyes. “I’ve done exactly what I tried not to do – drag you into my affairs. It has made you so miserable that I can feel it when we’re in the same room together. Do you know that? Last night, while you slept, I could see the misery hanging like bad curtains. I can’t live like that.”

Leaning forward, Aethenaris kissed the tears, pressing them away with his lips. “This isn’t about me. You can do this,” he whispered onto one of Dorian’s cheeks. Just saying the words, just comforting Dorian – he felt calmer and stronger than he had in days. Perhaps the salmon would live another day, but by this river, they had shifted the balance of the unsurmountable.“Say the word. I will be at your side.”

Withdrawing from their close embrace, Dorian remained smiling, unveiled and unrestrained, with watery eyes filled now with devotion. “You never left.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constants and variables. NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference purposes, this is where the missing Inner Circle members are: Leliana is Divine, Vivienne returned to Val Royeaux, Blackwall is at Weisshaupt (which I mention in an earlier chapter), and Varric is with Hawke.  
> Krem replaced Blackwall just a few weeks before the events in this piece. (I may write that fic someday.) Harding replaced Leliana just after Corypheus's defeat.

The Great Hall doors opened wide, and Aethenaris drew a deep breath, keenly aware of every eye on him, both before him and gathered outside. The gazes, however, led not to mutters and whispers, as they had in the Grand Masquerade at Halam’shiral. Instead, the room before him and the crowd behind him broke into thundering applause.

Next to him stood Dorian and, for the second time in less than a minute, Aethenaris wondered if Dorian might draw more attention than himself. If the fact became true, Aethenaris silently decided, it might be appropriate. Cara had designed for him an infusion of Tevinter and Ferelden fashion in dark aubergine – doublet with trailing sleeves, breeches, and thigh-high boots. The cape, however, proved to be the showpiece of the lot, with its mighty spray of deep purple feathers that seemed to shift color in the light.

Behind them, Cullen, Josephine, and Harding trailed in dignified silence, each also dressed in new clothing designed to their specifications. Cullen’s simple suit, complete with shoulder-cape, provided a stark contrast to Josephine’s sapphire-colored gown covered in rich Antivan lace, and again to the waistcoat and breeches of brocade that Harding had chosen for herself.

“We are a handsome lot,” noted Dorian under his breath as they made their way across the room.

Aethenaris could not, at that moment, think of a response that would fit the situation. He knew that once he reached his throne, which now served as the center of a banquet table, he would speak to the partygoers. He allowed himself a single indulgence, a moment to shift his gaze as they walked, and take in the sight of Dorian and his splendor. The confidence in Dorian’s step, the square of his shoulders and the rustle of his clothing as he walked – it drew Aethenaris’s gaze like a moth to a flame. Even the play of light as it touched his handsome, chiseled face almost brought the Inquisitor to a halt when he should have been progressing. The sight of Dorian certainly made Aethenaris feel a bit too warm in his doublet.

“You will stay with me during the party?” Aethenaris inquired in tones too low for the crowd to discern.

“Why?” Dorian inquired, and for a moment, suspicion crossed his handsome face.

“So I can gaze at you all night.” Might as well tell the truth. “You look incredible.”

Dorian barely restrained a laugh, turning it into a quick cough. “ _Flirt_.”

They reached the table and did as they rehearsed, all taking their places at the table where the Inner Circle of the Inquisition already sat. Aethenaris did not sit as they did, but instead drew a deep breath and, nodding once in Josephine’s direction, addressed the crowd:

“One year ago today, we stood together against an enemy who sought to bring an end to our world. This celebration not only serves to recall that day, but to remember the precarious moment we all knew.” He drew a breath, trying not to look at individual faces as he continued. No. To recognize and to take note would unnerve him. “We nearly lost Thedas to the greatest threat it had seen since Corypheus led the other magisters to the Golden City. Many lost their lives that day and in other battles before. Tonight, we honor their deaths and their lives, the sacrifices of the living and the dead, and look to the sunrise of a glorious future.”

The room’s applause made Aethenaris’s ears ache. He waited, patiently, stilling his breathing, his heart banging in his chest. When silence followed, he continued:

“The Inquisition’s work is far from done, friends. Our history has taught us that in the removal of one threat, another will take its place. Even now, many of our great cities suffer still the effects of the war between the mages and Templars. The leaders send armies against each other for both old and new offenses. We have great opportunity to end these conflicts. The Inquisition can act as mediator and friend in events that will forever shift the course of history. We can rebuild and protect. We can offer aid and stability. We have a sacred charge and we must never let that falter.”

Aethenaris resisted the overwhelming urge to glance back at Dorian – for what reason he could not surmise. Support, perhaps? He was never fond of being the center of attention, even when he stood the chance of giving inspiration to someone else. He would have rather taken each of the partygoers aside, spoken to them, inspiring them on a far more personal level.

“The opportunity stands within reach. This year, every single person that pledged themselves to the Inquisition will have the chance to impact this world. No contribution is too small. We are – all of us together – defenders of Thedas! We are the Inquisition!”

He drew a sigh of relief as the applause returned. At last, finished. The minstrels struck up a merry tune, loud with dancing flutes, leaving Aethenaris to move around the table and to take his seat at last.

“Excellent speech,” Dorian murmured as Aethenaris sat in his throne. A servant leaned between them, filling Aethenaris’s cup with wine.

“Agreed.” Cassandra, who sat on Aethenaris’s right, cast a rather withering glance at the far end of the table. Sera and Bull had no sooner noticed the arrival of the plates of food that they dug in with great relish, serving one another and talking loudly about dancing. “Your skill at speech writing has greatly improved, Inquisitor.”

“I know it inspired me.” The newest member of the Inner Circle, Krem, who sat between Sera and Cassandra, looked up briefly as Sera began a running commentary on the butter dish. He shook his head at the discussion and he selected thick slices of fresh, fragrant bread from a covered basket.

Dorian placed his hand over his own goblet when the servant attempted to fill it. “I’ll have tea instead. Strong tea. Please.”

Aethenaris found himself stilled in astonishment. His gaze fell on his own goblet, and all at once, he knew what he needed to do. Clearing his throat, he turned his head and summoned a second servant with a beckon and a friendly smile. That same hand extended the full goblet toward the servant when he approached. “A pot of tea for the Grand Archivist and myself. This is a rare vintage, isn’t it? We won’t let it go to waste. You can have it.”

The servant moved away, holding the goblet in both hands, clearly surprised at the turn of events, but perhaps surprised even more at what happened next.

Josephine stared. Then, in a decisive and elegant gesture, turned her empty goblet upside-down and placed it on the table. “I am sorry for the inconvenience,” she said to the servant at her elbow. “There should be a box of Antivan red-label tea in the pantry, the one I’ve reserved for important visits. Let’s open it now. Some for the Grand Archivist, the Inquisitor, myself and –“ She glanced at Cullen, who sat at her left.

“I don’t know much about tea, but Antivan red-label tea sounds, uh, special.” With a sideways glance at Josephine, Cullen turned over his own empty cup. “I’ll have some.”

Cassandra cast a kind but resolute look down the table at Dorian, then pointedly turned over her glass. From down the table, at the opposite end from Sera, Cole, and Bull, Harding did the same.

Krem had been clearly observing the proceedings and beckoned a servant toward him. “We’re having tea? Never been a tea drinker. I’ll have some water instead.” He briefly shifted his gaze in Dorian’s direction, but only for a moment before smiling up at the servant. “I’m parched.”

“What are we doing?” Iron Bull inquired in the middle of filling his plate with roasted potatoes.

“Drinking water, Chief,” Krem smoothly replied. “Or tea if you want it.”

“Alright, but just this once.” Bull exhaled loudly and added a chicken leg to his plate. “Sera, you too?”

“Hmm?” Sera put down the butter dish, sliding it across the table and back to its intended spot.

“Drink water. It’s good for you. When it’s not full of dead shit.” Bull picked up the gravy boat, which looked like a child’s delicate toy in his scarred hands.

“Whatever. It’s fine. Pass the ham.”

Aethenaris’s gaze fell on Cole at last, who sat at the far end of their table, opposite Harding. He had no place setting before him, nor did he reach for any food. He simply tilted his head, gazed at with knowing blue eyes, and then returned his attention to Sera’s acquisition of the large plate of ham.

So much had occurred in the passing moments, so much that Aethenaris would turn over in his head – Dorian’s refusal of wine, the support of the advisors and Cassandra, Krem’s discretion; he reminded himself to thank Krem later for not embarrassing Dorian. Turning his head, he saw Dorian serving himself a small amount of ham. Aethenaris recognized the expression on his face, that deliberate attempt at busying himself with another task while his mind worked somewhere else, either in another pool of emotions or on memory’s shore.

 

***

When the partygoers had feasted, the minstrels moved to the makeshift stage set in the courtyard, and there they struck up a merry song with horns and drums. Some of the guests followed the music, dancing next to the stage in blurs of color and joyous voices.

Aethenaris danced with Josephine – twice, in fact – and the two chatted about the success of the party and the joyful music and the delicious cakes on the dessert table. Neither spoke of the event that started the dinner. Neither spoke of the discussion of that morning, or the moments in the previous days.

To the Inquisitor, it seemed a blissful relief, a shard in time when his spirits rose and remained strong and filled with cheer.

He caught sight of Dorian several times during these moments, once watching the minstrels from a distance, the next near the menagerie tent, where a dwarf from the Anderfels showed off an incredible array of wild animals to a curious crowd.

Once he departed the dance floor, Aethenaris began a search for Dorian in earnest. Would Dorian be willing to dance, the two of them out in the crowd rather than sequestered on a balcony, as they had been at Halam’shiral? Perhaps. At dinner, Dorian had been quiet but calm, staring into the distance a great deal, filling his teacup over and over with the fragrant, strong tea. He refused the selection of cakes brought to their table, said that he needed to take in the air, and excused himself.

Part of Aethenaris recoiled in a reaction of which he didn’t know he was capable. Dorian wasn’t going to find a drink, was he? No. They could not do this. This time, he had to trust Dorian.

They had both set the board and Aethenaris had firmly given Dorian the first move. This was not the time to interfere.

It was when he ascended the staircase to the second floor of the Great Hall, taking a brief glance at Dorian’s old place in the library and the chair that he had once claimed for his own, that he caught the sound of Dorian’s voice. Moving quietly into the stretch of floor that Vivienne had once occupied, he paused, leaning against the wall that led to the bay doors and the balcony beyond.

“You don’t want to do this,” Dorian said.

“No. I don’t,” Cassandra replied. Her voice sounded both tight and concerned. “I know my strength. I know what I’m capable of.”

“And I’m giving you my full consent to do whatever is necessary.” Dorian’s voice hardened. “Cullen no longer has access to his Templar abilities. You are the only one I trust in this.”

“Perhaps you are not hearing me correctly.” Each word sounded clipped. “If I am forced to neutralize your magic, I can and may injure you in the process, perhaps badly.”

“Well,” Dorian replied. “As long as it won’t make me Tranquil, then we’ve got something.” There was a pause, and he added, “The last time I attempted this, I – I was not myself. I suffered terrible hallucinations. I will not do this if there is the smallest chance that I might harm an innocent or, worse, Aethenaris.”

“No.” Cassandra’s tones grew lower in timbre. “It will not make you Tranquil. The effects are temporary but, I am told, very painful. I have seen hemorrhaging and even temporary comas.”

“A coma!” Dorian let out a small laugh. “A chance to miss the bit where I’ll be vomiting on myself for weeks? That sounds like a benefit to me.”

Cassandra’s sigh came heavy and loud. “Do not make light of this.” She uttered a noise that sounded like a cross between a growl and an expression of distaste. “It would be cruel to ask you to lock yourself in the dungeon for the duration of your recovery. I would not ask that. I will demand that I remain with you at all times. I will need a bedroll in your quarters. A stand for my armor. Will Aethenaris allow that?”

Dorian’s response brought a lighter feeling to Aethenaris’s chest. “Yes. I’m certain that he will. He’s pledged himself to do whatever is necessary.”

_Yes_ , Aethenaris added silently. _Yes, I will and I have_.

“Very well. I will move my things into your quarters tomorrow morning. Have you made arrangements with the physician? Fritz is his name, I believe.”

“I will submit myself to a full physical examination tomorrow morning. We have already spoken,” said Dorian.

The feeling of pride grew within Aethenaris’s chest, warming him so completely that he thought that the sun would burst out from within. Joy rose up into his eyes and fuelled his footsteps, and, at last, he turned the corner and revealed himself.

He caught the worry in Dorian’s grey eyes, mirroring the concern in Cassandra’s proud, chiseled face.

Cassandra had been leaning against the balcony. At the sight of Aethenaris, she stood up tall, squared her shoulders, and nodded at Aethenaris. “Your Grace. I’ll let you two talk,” she murmured before departing quietly and quickly.

“Seeker,” Aethenaris said in a quiet voice, watching her go, turning her warnings over in his mind before returning his attention to Dorian.

In the silence that followed, Dorian smiled but said nothing, though there lay no happiness behind that smile. No. Aethenaris searched his proud face and saw what the smile hid – fear, written in the tension in his lips and the wideness of his eyes. That expression alone, especially when the smile vanished like a veil slipping away, caused Aethenaris to draw nearer, coming to stand so close that their bodies touched, shoulder to shoulder and arm to arm.

And then Dorian spoke, but the words came quickly, falling over one another, lacking all of Dorian’s usual elegance, but instead a nervous jumble of syllables. “Here’s the plan, _amatus_. I haven’t had a drink since before our little outing this morning. I thought about our talks from this morning and last night, and I’ve made my decision. I’m done with drink. Finished.” He stopped, drawing a shaky breath, his eyes darting over Aethenaris’s face.

Aethenaris opened his mouth, not really sure what he meant to say, but Dorian cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Just let me have my say. If I don’t say all of this, I’ll come right out of my skin, I swear it. I’ve got a headache. The tea helped; brilliant suggestion of Josephine’s, I say. However, in the coming days, things are going to get a lot worse than a headache. Cassandra has agreed to stand guard of me, in case the unthinkable happens. In case I lose control of my abilities for any reason – any reason at all, I’ve asked her to neutralize my magic for a time.  She is the only person with Templar abilities that I trust – in this part of Thedas, that is. I’m not taking the time to send for anyone from the Vyrantium Circle. I’d change my mind in the time it took just the letter to arrive. Not to mention that they would be likely to be cast out of the Order by the Black Divine for even thinking of stepping on Inquisition soil.”

 Inside of his chest, Aethenaris felt his heart banging. He refused to show anything less but the most compassion and support. No fear. No nervousness. Nothing would spoil this for Dorian. Nothing.

“Go on,” murmured Aethenaris, almost in warm reverence. “Talk through it. I’m here. I’m listening.”

“I’ve asked Helisma to take over the Archives until I return. I’ve been training her to become my assistant. For that, you will need to transfer my official authority to her. She will use it well. Probably better than I have, at any rate.” Dorian crossed his arms, but Aethenaris noticed the tension in his body and, specifically, his fingers, as if Dorian were hugging himself. “She is working on a project about a specific Inquisitor under the old Inquisition. Quite promising. She has my permission to acquire whatever she needs for it.”

It ached for Aethenaris to remain even at a short distance, seeing Dorian so completely unnerved and uncomfortable. At last, he reached up, sliding his hands over Dorian’s elbows. “Your affairs and duties will be taken care of,” he murmured. “You will be taken care of. By my own hands, if need be.”

“I know. You are the most constant variable in this equation. Fritz, the physician – damn the man, I think he’s actually excited about this – he’ll be present in our quarters. As will Cassandra.”

“We will accommodate them and give them whatever they need.” Aethenaris moved his fingertips over Dorian’s arms, drawing him close.  He felt the overwhelming urge to draw away from the party now, himself and Dorian, and simply return to their quarters, a calm place soon to be filled with disturbances too erratic to predict. Instead, Aethenaris worked over the words to say, each within the tumultuous depths of his mind, but only came up with ones that he did not fully like: “I’m proud of you.”

His words drew a strange, shuddered gasp from Dorian, and all at once he wondered if anyone had ever said those words to Dorian at all.

“The horror has only begun, and there is so much left to endure.” Dorian paused, resting his nose against one of Aethenaris’s tattooed cheeks. “I won’t let this affliction follow us any longer. I won’t let it follow us with its teeth at our heels. I won’t let it destroy what we’ve built together.” He drew a slow and shaky breath. “I will not concede that to anyone. Not even myself.”

And then, silence reigned between them. The merry songs of the minstrels at the party below sounded as if they came from very far away, in a land where joy lived in rich clothing and fine foods and did not bow to the present and the real. Dorian threaded his fingers through Aethenaris’s hair and pressed his lips in the space that his nose had once occupied. Aethenaris realized that his arms ached before he knew that he had been straining them in holding Dorian so tightly to himself. He allowed his arms to loosely rest around Dorian’s trim waist instead, underneath the wings of the lush feathered cape.

Only when Dorian stepped back and caught his gaze did Aethenaris return to the greater moment and all of its consequences. “I need to be alone with you. Now.” He said in a gravelly voice, something in that gaze that Aethenaris found foreign and unreadable. “Please.”

_At last_ , Aethenaris thought, Dorian’s words more of a relief to the building pressure of the last few minutes. They could retire to their quarters, perhaps immediately to bed, where he could hold Dorian close and stroke expanses of his skin until the mage fell into a much-needed sleep. Aethenaris cast a long look around them, at the dancing and feasting partygoers. No one looked at them. It might be a long time before anyone noticed a lack of their presence.

He decided that he didn’t care. Giving Dorian a single and resolute nod, he headed for their quarters, moving through dancing and celebrating bodies, warm and alive and oblivious to his path. As he opened the door and stepped aside, he set aside thoughts of the party and his responsibilities. Dorian needed him. It was all that mattered.

No sooner did Dorian shut the door behind them that Aethenaris found himself pinned against the wall by both shoulders. Dorian’s lips mashed into his with force, their teeth clicking together before Dorian’s tongue pressed inward into Aethenaris’s mouth.

Aethenaris found himself stilled into astonishment, the need to respond rising up from his belly as a matter of instinct, but his rational thought rose up in protest. This shouldn’t happen now, not with Dorian nervous, upset, terrified to the point of trembling, and hadn’t he said that he had a headache? With gentle hands, he pressed into Dorian’s ribs, trying to urge him away.

Dorian broke the kiss, whispering on Aethenaris’s lips words that caused the Inquisitor’s stomach to flutter: “I need you. One last time.” Drawing back, Dorian pressed his forehead against Aethenaris’s, meeting his eyes, their bodies still mashed tightly together. “Unless you’d rather retire for tonight.”

And then, Aethenaris understood. This he could do for him. This he would _gladly_ do for him. Their intimate moments had only grown better over the past year, stronger and more passionate as they grew to know one another’s bodies and minds and hearts. “If you’re certain,” he whispered, “I will not refuse you.”

Aethenaris tightened his jaw and ignored his own need for the moment. He planned the path and took it slowly, starting with leaning over, brushing his nose across Dorian’s own before settling their lips together once again. He did not linger there long. Pulling away, he slid his hands over Dorian’s shoulders, through the cascades of feathers and over whirls of golden embroidery. One hand remained there, a pivot as Aethenaris moved around him, making a path of quiet steps that ended at Dorian’s back. Capable fingers slid over the cape’s clasp, unsnapped it, and pulled the fine garment free.

He carried it in two hands, walking up the steps, moving gingerly because of the surmounting need that fought to sap away rational thought. Dorian followed, in near-silence, his gaze upon the glimmering folds of fabric that Aethenaris draped over the couch.

Aethenaris half-expected Dorian to ask if he meant for them to lay together on the cape, perhaps destroying it in the process. Dorian did not speak, but plead with his posture and face together a tumble of words as loud as the festival music outside of their windows: _I need you, I need to be comforted, I need to know that this is right, I need you, I need you._

They met again in the center of the room, lips on lips, but only for a moment before Dorian moved behind the Inquisitor, his fingers sliding over the clasps of the gorget and setting each free of the other. He lifted the fine leather piece, leaned forward, with breath hot and quick, and drew a line across the back of Aethenaris’s neck, one side to the other, with his lips leaving soft kisses. Then he repeated Aethenaris’s journey to the couch, setting the gorget there on a cushion, the fine feathers of the cape brushing the carved leather surface.

He returned, walking as if caught in a dream, manicured fingers moving over the fastenings on his doublet. This he slipped free of his body, draping it over a chair with significant less care than the cape or gorget.

Aethenaris shed his doublet and shirt, and left them on the floor in a puddle before returning to Dorian, lips now upon a bare stretch of the necromancer’s neck as his hands slid under and up Dorian’s own tunic.

“Yes,” Dorian rumbled, speaking for the first time since they ascended to their quarters. “Yes, more.”

More. He could do that. Aethenaris tightened his jaw again and pushed away realization of the arousal that stroked his thoughts into mist. Taking Dorian’s hand, he led him across the room, to their bed, ignoring the throbbing in his own trousers. There they stopped and there Aethenaris used his free hand to draw long lines down Dorian’s chest, down his breastbone, to his navel, slowing at the line of curling hairs leaning down and into his trousers.

A sigh escaped Dorian’s parted lips. Smiling softly, if not a bit sadly, he sat on the bed, the thick quilts billowing around his still-booted legs. He tugged at the laces of his trousers.

Aethenaris knelt just in front of the aubergine-colored boots, lips tightening briefly at the shift of his hips. A task remained undone, and so he performed it without looking up at Dorian’s face, or at the expanse of flesh revealed in his lap. Taking each boot in turn, Aethenaris unlaced each and released the buckles with the same care that he might take with something dear, something so precious. He tugged each free of Dorian’s legs, setting them aside, along with the elegant stockings beneath – puddles of silk sliding over leather.

Both hands at once started at the ankles, thumbs brushing their domed surface, sliding up the trouser legs with rough fingers tracing paths through the thick hair there. Only then did he dare look up and into Dorian’s eyes, at the smile curling on his lips, the sweat beading on his forehead and beginning to dampen his hair.

Tucking his feet beneath him, Aethenaris sat up, expecting to give Dorian the softest of kisses, but instead, those elegant fingers threaded through his hair and pushed his head into another crushing kiss. It caught Aethenaris off-guard so that he staggered and pressed a hand against Dorian’s breastbone. In his mouth, Dorian’s tongue flickered. Under his hand, Dorian’s heart pattered within his chest.

The scent drove him forward, that heady melody of cinnamon mixed with desire. Aethenaris could delay himself but would no longer leave Dorian in need. No. He balanced himself on both knees and found his palms sweaty, but it didn’t matter. One capable hand found that familiar length, so warm and turgid and already beginning its own pulse. He ducked his head, blond hair becoming slick with his own sweat and mixing with Dorian’s, and pressed the length into his mouth.

Dorian’s throaty groan was its own award, but in the next sharp breath, he uttered syllables so rare between them, breaking the formality of language they held even after a year together – “ _Aethenaris_ –“

The Inquisitor closed his eyes, moving in fluid motions, tongue lapping from within. He focused on Dorian’s sighs and breathing and lost everything else in the process. Celebratory music and singing faded from the world. Only their bodies moving together in the familiar and wonderful – joined by the calming sensation of Dorian’s fingers in his hair and then on his cheeks – occupied his mind. Until Dorian’s breathing hitched and pulses grew into rivulets and Aethenaris drew it all into himself.

Liquid tension drained away from Dorian’s body. Aethenaris withdrew him from his mouth and pressed a kiss against Dorian’s navel, holding his lips there for a long moment, his breath warming the taut skin. He waited. He waited for Dorian to speak again – he always did, after all, to perhaps direct them back into their clothes and to the party. Or maybe they would end their night here, curled up among the warm blankets with their fingers linked and lips brushing sleepy kisses onto each other’s flesh.

“Maker,” Dorian said with a throaty chuckle. “I thought it would be over before you got my boots off. Go on, now. On the bed. I intend to repay in kind.”

Raising his head, Aethenaris rocked back on his heels. “You don’t need to do that,” he said, staggering to his feet in a most inelegant way. His legs felt heavy, and the desire hidden away in his clothes had not subsided. “You needed _me_.”

With the corners of his lips turned up in a fond sort of smirk, Dorian’s gaze landed directly on the center of Aethenaris’s trousers. “If that gets any bigger, I’m going to fix a focus on it and use it in battle. Do set it free, will you? You’ll injure yourself.”

Aethenaris caught himself smiling. Dorian sounded more like himself now, and less like a version caught in hold of terror. His own less-ornate boots only took a few tugs apiece, and he simply added them to the pile of clothes accumulating before the bedside table. Meeting Dorian’s eyes, he stretched out on their bed, reached above his head, and snatched up one of the pillows for his use.

It was then, only then – laying upon the bed, with Dorian lifting up one of his legs and resting it on one of his shoulders, that Aethenaris let go of his thoughts, his worries, and any concerns for the future and its details. He knew only the warmth of Dorian’s hands, his breath hot against him, the softness of his tongue and lips drawing a groan from the depths of Aethenaris’s throat. He then lost himself entirely in sensation and emotion, grasping onto this intimate and private moment and clutching it as tightly as he could grip.

 


End file.
